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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28364697">Bring Your Hunger</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Farthings/pseuds/Johns_Farthings'>Johns_Farthings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Edward Little having some Thoughts, Emotional disaster Edward Little, Food, M/M, Temptation, Thomas Jopson pouring some wine, UST, that's it that's the story</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:42:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28364697</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Farthings/pseuds/Johns_Farthings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'Little is not fussy with food. Certainly not as a child – he had once been chastised for attempting to eat a worm whilst on a healthful stroll, curious about what it may taste like (bitter, though he had been forced to spit it out before he could bite down).'</p><p>The officers reminisce about the comforts of home, but Little finds himself distracted.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Terror Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bring Your Hunger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Terror Bingo fill: Tongue<br/>Warnings: Some period-typical attitudes to homosexuality and a bit of confusion around sexuality in general. Lots of references to food/eating. </p><p>Title taken from 'The Horror and the Wild' by The Amazing Devil.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Beef tongue,’ Lieutenant Hodgson says.</p><p>A murmur of ascent around the table.</p><p>‘Charlotte aux pommes,’ says Irving. ‘With cream.’</p><p>Nods and clearing of throats.</p><p>‘What about you, Doctor?’ Hodgson says. ‘What food would you would bring to this table, if you could?’</p><p>‘Well…’ McDonald purses his lips. ‘I am partial to a nice piece of cheese. Double Gloucester – fresh, mind.’</p><p>Irving lets out a groan. ‘I would give a great deal for something fresh.’  </p><p>Little should tell them to stop. Talking about food that they do not have is hardly a productive activity, and with the Captain taking his supper alone in his cabin, as he has begun to do more often as the nights close in, Little is ranking officer at the table. Not that they are short of supplies – yet. But it is a long time since they have had anything resembling fresh. The tins, even served on fine china and accompanied with wine, tend to leave one longing for the same meal, but cooked proper, rather than prised from a metal tube. </p><p>He looks down at the plate in front of him. Some form of mutton stew, though he is not entirely convinced that is the true origin of the meat. He does not really care.</p><p>Little is not fussy with food. Certainly not as a child – he had once been chastised for attempting to eat a worm whilst on a healthful stroll, curious about what it may taste like (bitter, though he had been forced to spit it out before he could bite down). And he is used to being at sea – used to the slow dwindling of vegetables, the parched longing for fruit or fresh meat that begins to set in a few months into a voyage, and clings until the ship reaches port.</p><p>Frozen in as they are, they will not be reaching a port any time soon, but he is not hungry today. He has not been hungry for some time.</p><p>‘I say, Edward? Edward?’</p><p>Little looks up with a start.</p><p>‘What would you have?’ Hodgson indicates the table. ‘If you could have anything?’</p><p>‘Oh, I…’ Little fixes his eyes on the table in front of him, noting that everyone else’s plates are nearly empty, and he has only taken a few bites of his own. He forces his spoon into the mush of vegetables and indistinguishable meat. ‘I could not choose one thing.’</p><p>‘Come come. There must be something.’</p><p>‘I really-’</p><p>‘What’s the harm? It is not as if you can actually have it!’</p><p>Little sighs. ‘Beef tongue, then. With parsley.’</p><p>‘<em>I </em>said beef tongue.’ Hodgson rolls his eyes. ‘Choose something else.’</p><p>‘That is what I would have.’</p><p>Hodgson regards him for a moment, then shakes his head and moves on to some other topic. Little brings his spoon to his mouth and chews, though whatever it is has no flavour. It sticks, gluey between his teeth.  </p><p>‘More wine, sir?’</p><p>He almost jumps out of his seat as Jopson appears at his shoulder. The room is cramped, the heat of Jopson’s breath close against his ear. Little keeps his eyes fixed on his half-empty glass, knowing that he should demur, keep a clear head.</p><p>'Please.'</p><p>The hiss of liquid into the crystal should not be the loudest thing in the room, not with Hodgson still rattling on about God knows what, but it is deafening. The hairs on Little’s neck rise, betraying him as they strain towards the soft breath at his ear.</p><p>'There you are, sir.'</p><p>Jopson lifts the bottle and steps back, melting quietly away. His presence leaves a warmth at Little's back. Little reaches for his glass, clutches for it, and some of the wine slops over, spilling dark across the polished table. Before he can muster a curse, Jopson is there, cloth in hand. He sponges the ruby mark, lifting the glass delicately by its rim so that he can swipe underneath it.</p><p>‘Thank you,’ Little manages, eyes fixed on Jopson’s hand, the way his fingers curl gently around the crystal to almost float it from the table, the line of dark hairs that creep from his wrist towards his knuckles. Little wants to take hold of Jopson’s hand and examine the dips and lines of it, put it to his lips and understand what those hairs taste like. He wants feel the ridge of the man's collarbone under his palm, wants to touch Jopson’s hair at the parting and know the softness of his scalp underneath it. Wants bury his teeth in the crook of Jopson’s neck leave marks on damp skin.</p><p>‘No trouble at all, sir.’</p><p>Jopson does not linger about the wine. Everything is cleaned up effectively and efficiently, but the room is too small, the table too large - his sleeve, almost inevitably, brushes Little’s wrist. Little feels a jerk in his naval, the impulse to grasp Jopson's arm and squeeze, to taste the saline mix of of sweat and wine on his fingertips. </p><p>Jopson steps back. The other officers do not even look in their direction. </p><p>Little does not reach for the wine again. He hides his shaking hands on his knees and stares at the table, trying not to the notice that Jopson’s fingertips have left faint marks on the crystal. What would Jopson do if Little were to upend the glass now, onto the floor, into his lap? He has the prickling urge to do it, or else pick the glass up and hurl it at the opposite wall, just over Hodgson’s head, so that Jopson will have to move into his line of sight, if only for a moment. Little never seems to be able to get a proper look at him – Jopson is never close for more than a few seconds, always dancing away towards some other task, some other duty. <em>Stay still, so that I might look at you,</em> Little wants to scream at him, or else <em>keep away, get out of my sight</em>. </p><p>He cannot blame the ice. He has been on longer voyages than this one, without such distractions. He follows his orders, does his duty. He does not engage in unseemly thoughts, even to pass the time. A foolish thing on dry land, and worse at sea. And Jopson is not some round-cheeked girl, a whim that might be indulged without consequence. </p><p>He cannot blame Jopson, either. He treats Little no differently to the rest of the men, comports himself with skill and cheerfulness, as is expected of him. Nothing more, and yet he festers like a wound. Itches. Little's sleep is disrupted, and he has no appetite for food. He is sick with Jopson, feverish in his thoughts, craving in his very skin and growing worse with every meal, with every setting down of plates, every tasteless stew or soup, every clearing away of cutlery. Erysichthon, starving and consumed. </p><p>Little takes a deep, deep breath, forcing air into his belly, then picks up his spoon and drives it into the stew. Brings the spoon to his mouth, chews, though there is nothing much to chew amongst the strings of meat and unidentifiable vegetables. Swallows. Gravy clogs the back of his throat. He must eat, or Jopson will suspect. Jopson is quick, he notices things. </p><p>He must not notice this. </p><p>Little forces himself to take another bite, and another, cramming the stew down until there is nothing left on the plate but gristle. Afterwards, hands shaking, with a sick feeling twisting his stomach, he reaches for the wine glass and takes a large gulp. Too large – the liquid washes back against his throat, stings his nose. He supresses a splutter. A board creaks. Jopson, moving towards him – does he miss nothing? – but Little waves a hand and, thank God, the wine slides down his throat. Jopson does not attempt to approach again. </p><p>Hodgson says something. Little nods through his ringing ears, hoping that it is the correct response. He takes a more measured sip of the wine, hoping to strip the gravy from the back of his throat. Realises, too late, that he is putting his lips to the place Jopson’s fingertips had been a few minutes before. The marks have faded, but Little knows where they were, as clear as if they were painted on the rim of the crystal. </p><p>Jopson has moved to McDonald's elbow, refreshing his glass. He is not looking.</p><p>No-one is looking.</p><p>Like a starving man presented with a piece of wax fruit, Little presses his lips to the glass, closes his eyes and pretends the gentle heat of Jopson's fingers is still there, beneath his tongue.</p>
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